


The Boy Who Shouted Love at the Face of the World

by spicy



Category: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: Abuse, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 12:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13590297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicy/pseuds/spicy
Summary: Kaworu reflects upon his childhood in an internal monologue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try an experimental first-person writing style. I wanted to capture Kaworu as closely to his canon character as possible. 
> 
> I thought of extending this into a multi-ch fic detailing Evangelion from Kaworu's POV, what do you think? Feedback strongly encouraged.
> 
> I recommend Beethoven's Symphony No.9 whilst reading

What does it mean to have a body?  
The choice of terms is quite particular.  
Humans are particular.  
To be human is to be a body.  
I have a body  
_  
I can't grasp specific years when recounting my earliest memories. This laboratory of sorts is where I could not- no, rather, I was prevented from grasping a sense of time passing. 

Fluorescent lights withheld all but the distinction of night and day- the dusk indicated by their dimming after the heavy metallic doors had slammed shut and several locks had clicked into place. By dawn, those lights assaulted my senses- I could never adjust to the startling power of them. My eyes were still fuzzy for some time after I was removed from the tank, hoisted by familiar nurses who said "Tabris" with customary politeness. 

My body felt incredibly heavy on land. I used to believe that the Earth’s gravity was pulling me back from the hole from which I came (ha). That orange liquid- I can only assume was keeping me alive- also brittled my bones and emancipated my body. As such, we can deduce that following and including treatments acted as some anti-rejection mechanisms- the body against the transplanted organ, transplanted soul.  
I suppose I’m a mutt. 

However, usually mutts are quite healthy. Their diverse genetic lineages mean that the course of natural selection had aided them. No- I’m artificially selected. Ironically, you Lilin call them pure-breeds- but the selection itself is quite grotesque. Overcoming the Other through the most literate action of the human ego-aesthetic, I did not need the daily procedures to identicate that I was not a Lilin.

An internal sense of conflict with my body gnawed at my subconscious at every moment of awareness- the prick of a needle, swallowing of food, spitting out fluid from my lungs and choking on dry air. I was given names for my condition in due time.  
To recant my previous point, purebred animals are actually quite sickly. Their selection for specific traits had debased their prior adaptations for survival. But those desired traits are so precious that Lilin would so greatly value the life they had created over those pre-existing. This is also the case of human parent-child relationship. 

Similarly to a non-human animal, I was also apparently stripped from my “parents”. My original body is somewhere so far I can barely sense it, and I know nothing of the sorts of a Lilin donor or other similar source of genetic material.  
The resulting traits of this union is the hope of the Lilin from a fate of destruction. Begetting the course of evolution, Lilins have decided to create their own extinction event- to reset the planet to its’ state before civilization and to once again allow for willful survival. 

Those are things I’ve been told, at least. I could have doubted this statements- the continuous abuse of this body demonstrated the Lilin’s insecurity. I read later in a book that the Lilin anatomy permits extraordinary displays of strength and stamina under stress. However, my own abilities have no sensible explanation. The apparent mythical quality of my abilities also seemed presumptuous. My stunts developed from defensive reflexes towards intentional motions. AT Field clearly outline the form of each conscious being, yet this is undetectable by the Lilin. For all sciences which by they play God, they know so little. It was in desperate hope, negligence that I was born.

There exists within me a deep, burning feeling. Hate, contempt, anger. Those things I try not to think about. I was probably conditioned to withhold myself, or so SEELE would quickly panic that my mood swings would cause emanate massacre. Well, so it happened sometimes. I don’t remember.

I spend most of my days isolated, existing within my own confines. Timeless. I can’t remember anything because it will make me sad and angry. I can’t be upset or I’ll scare everyone. Hours, days, weeks blend together. I was waiting to die. They were right. I hate people. I hate that I was born. I hate myself because I can’t die here. 

I sometimes revolt in private by causing my skin to split at the slice of my AT field. I show the nurse attending and she screams, I’m held down and my supervisors later wake me up with a stern look. They know there is no point in scolding me, so they talk as if I'm not there. Talk about what medical conditions or environmental influences distressed my delicate psyche. I’m the only precious thing which I can damage. That's how I express my hatred, in some way. The scars heal eventually, I run my hands up my arms sometimes and am sometimes momentarily surprised by what I perceive as new additions, outbursts I've already forgotten.

When I was some age, I eventually was able to persuade the old men to give me some mental stimulation. They debated for some time over the effect of cultural influence, so carefully they finally allowed me to play records in company with supervision. Carefully selected books and those smuggled by sympathetic caretakers. Soon those selected daily readings exceeded hundreds of pages. I spoke my first words just before I entered adolescence. 

I particularly begin to recall memories and experiences around this advent. Through language, my mind was able to organize coherent histories and schemas of understanding. It was shocking to my supervisors, who knew me mostly as mute- now, highly competent and fully aware. It was difficult. I suffered a lot more, with points of reference to compare myself. Happiness, sadness, humor, contentment. I was sometimes crying when I was able to identify new emotion- even happy ones. I was overwhelmed by those new sensations. My body and mind, numbed by linguistic asphyxiation, was still raw to those sensations and feelings so common to those around me. 

A lot of things happened. My body was quickly changing and I found this new sense of agency. I would no longer cry. I would no longer lose control of my feelings. I'll just stay here and enjoy those moments to myself- absorbed in the the new sense of aesthetics I've developed. I lost the energy to fight, I'm too rewarded by those sweet things depleting my ego. I'm docile. I'm tame. But I'm at some level of peace with my situation. I can blend in enough for my purpose. I'm glad. I can finally die, with little impediments. I can't help but keep asking questions, until the end.


	2. Chapter 2

It becomes increasingly difficult to bare with the feelings which Shinji Ikari has caused to bubble up deep from beneath the depths of my neglected subconscious. I’m completely aware of my heart beat for the first time in fourteen years. I force my attention to him, though I’m constantly distracted by a bombardment of familiarly confusing sensations. Hot coursing through my veins. The sweat on my brow. Can my bangs hide this? He just smiles along with me, I can’t keep suppressing it. I can’t help but smile when I see you. I smile harder when you smile with me. I’m glowing. I pace around in my room and repeat the small incidents between us. You looked down at me and looked bewildered. Do you hate me? Did I scare you? Are you the same as before? There is no way to tell until I keep going. Little lines slowly become crossed, I’m calculating every motion. I don’t have the courage to approach you just yet. But my soul is being crushed by your pained, lonely expression. I want you so bad. I must physically stop myself from picking you off your feet and embracing you tightly, sobbing into your shoulders and spilling out all of my secrets. I’m silently crush that you don’t recognize me. 

If you knew how long I waited, how many times I ran these scenarios in my head, how much you’ve occupied of my mind- would you hate me? I was a child back then. I just did whatever came at a whim. I crossed too many lines, far too soon. But you accepted me. I’m so thankful. How can I show you these feelings? How can I fully express my adoration, my affection, my love, my attraction to you? Even more, you don’t know me. I’m some stranger. I look odd compared to Lilins. Are you embarrassed? When you act shy, I can’t help but love you more. And it makes it more difficult for me. When I touch your hand, your body shivers. Such brief contact, you’ve been so hungry for touch as well, yes? I almost lean against your shoulder but stop myself. My hair brushes against you and your back tightens. I’m holding my breath but the most beautiful gasp escapes your lips. Your body heat is too close me. I’m using this as an excuse to get near you. Are you naïve? Is this flirting? I’m flirting with you and you don’t know it. So I can’t help but slide next to you on the seat and improvise some melody. I’m sublimating my desires to the sounds we’re producing. You sound beautiful. You look happy. I’m so relieved. I want you to love me. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m pretending. My hands are shaking by the end of the day. I had so much fun with you. I escape to my room and keep kicking my legs, huffing and squeezing my pillow. I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. I missed you so, so much. I love you. You’re so beautiful, you’re so much more beautiful than I remember. I can suddenly forget that I’m not human when I think of you, because I’m so stressed out by this urgent sense of arousal, joy, excitement, happiness, love. 

Another day, we do the same thing. You let me bump elbows. I act like I don’t notice. You’re sweating, and you skip your words. It’s just like before. Everything keeps flooding back, over and over, I play quicker. You meet my pace. I’m so proud. That night, you approach me. You want to spend more time with me. You ask me to lay down next to you. I keep looking at your face, but you keep looking at the stars. I say somethings which come out on a whim again, but you don’t shy away. You’re looking confused, but I can’t help but smile. You’re adorable even when you’re unsure of yourself. I must admit, I quite like you like that. Is that alright? I wonder how long I can keep this going. Little lines we cross every day. 

I can't sleep. I'm panting and burning up. I never do this kind of thing, but I read somewhere that this would make it more bareable to be around you. I can't adopt some sense of Lilin shame. I'm just aware of what I should or shouldn't do and shrug. It's sticky. This body, whomst I still feel unfamilar towards, continues to surprise me. I take a cold shower and I'm finally able to sleep.


End file.
